this here is for my [fellers] that be flippin' them birds

So, across the street from our Irving-ree-la here in Brooklyn is located the most ridiculously crappy bodega in all of the crappy world. Its shelves overflow with only the most expired of weird products, in addition to the most perfectly random, dusty, not for sale bric-a-brac.

Oh, and why not throw some cats in there. Yea, that's good, drape them about like bunch of sloppy clowns.

So where I'm going with this is: its owner is this woman from a Spanish-speaking country, who doesn't do much English-speaking, but does plenty of Irving-judging.

Sure, we basically only buy beer, toilet paper, and the occasional candy bar from her candy bars-only-deli case, so maybe her assumption that these items comprise our entire diet would be deserved fodder to fill her cannons what be firing judgmental looks on the reg...

But atop that, she stands on the street corner all day, casting glares up through our windows as I lawfully strut about our creepartment shirtless, hatted, and maybe also singing.

And really, it's more her fault than ours that it requires drinking a few cocktails for a person to even consider shopping at her bodeguernica, so the fact that we are, on occasion, less than 'not drunk' should be stricken from the record in the prejudiced case that I just know she has against us.

So we suffer sentences of half-smiling, sideways looks, and the shakings of a head in utterance of a Spanish idiom that roughly translates to 'confused disgust'.

Hey lady! Guess what?! I'm a weird person. Consider these observations a sneak-preview of the straight to 6 train dvd-bootlegger's bag movie, which will be based on the tell-all My Little Pony diary entry, written unauthorized by my brother Peter, and maliciously e-published post-my eating the last of his marzipan in the freezer just to spite him because I don't even like marzipan. If you follow.

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I WROTE THIS IN 2007, BUT I THINK IT IS STILL AS IRRELEVANT TODAY

I was in the park the other day. I was relaxing as i am wont to do; but this sort of chilling was especially inclusive of illing. Anyhoo, at one pointI swung my head about to survey the luscious mid-brooklyn greenage, when what do I see and cellphone-cam, but this dapper fellow doing stretches on the grass nearby:

Hard to make it out, but yes, he is wearing a bandana on his scraggly long hair. Oh yea, also a bright yellow g-string.

After feeling mildly disgusted by the scene, and sort of laugning about it, I took a step back from my own self. And what should I see but a sweaty, smelly guy on a bench, newspapers scattered all about, shoes off, coffee spilled all over shirt, black and white cookie smeared on face.

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Ready With Ready Wit

I am now employed at a place d'employment where the outfit I'm made to wear is, you guessed it: plaid on plaid on plaid. And not the really attractive plaid you're definitely thinking of. Oh, and part of it is a vest.

And people ask (make fun of, subtly) about the outfits all the time.

"Do you like wearing that?"

"Do you wear that outside of work?"

"Who came up with that horrendous outfit?"

Well, this forced fool-makery has got me thinking.

I wish to someday start a Morrissey-themed restaurant where the uniforms will be leather pants and half-open sweat-soaked shirts, which we waitrons will change like every 15 minutes, or between songs--and we'll play non-stop Morrissey, and we'll only have tables for one; and oh my, well I haven't worked out all of the specifics! Let's just say you'll probably leave crying, but I won't.

For more Morr, please see Ricky's sensical blog: http://morrisseyandpicturesofcats.blogspot.com/

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